Return
by Hannah Taylor1
Summary: Sweets puts the brakes on the Booth/Brennan partnership until Bones follows his advice for coming to terms with her recent loss. Neither partner takes the interference with their relationship particularly well ...
1. One more reason to hate psychology

**Return Home**

A/N: The story takes places at some point after Sweets, Booth and Brennan have shared metaphorical scars. It presupposes some events revolving around Russ and Max Keenan that haven't happened in the actual TV series.

I work hard at getting Booth and Bones' voices right, but admit I'm not particularly adept at channeling Sweets. (The rest of the story only concerns the partners anyway.) Booth is kind of mean to Sweets in this, I'll admit, but he's defending his partner so it's understandable, right?

This is only the first two chapters, but I'll update soon. Meanwhile, please R & R! :)

Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine. I wish they were, I wish they were, I wish they were …

**Chapter 1 – One more reason to hate psychology**

Temperance Brennan sat on the edge of the couch opposite Lance Sweets. Physically, she gave every appearance of being her usual self. A chunky amethyst necklace perfectly complemented the dark purple wrap dress she wore. Her sartorial style remained impeccable, from her neatly pulled back hair and flawless makeup, right down to her strappy black sandals.

Sweets would have liked nothing more than to call off the evaluation and send the squint on her not-so-merry way. Unfortunately, the scowl on her face spoke volumes on her distraught state of mind. Eyes classically squinted, brow furrowed, lips thinned, hands clenched and arms firmly crossed in front of herself completed the picture of hostility radiating from every pore.

Sweets leaned forward earnestly in his shrink chair, trying to physically bridge the emotional barrier the scientist had erected around herself. "It's important that you grieve the twin losses of your brother and father, Dr. Brennan. You can't move forward until you've acknowledged their passing and your sadness at their departure from your life."

"My father and my brother departed from my life at age 15." Brennan reminded him icily. "They reappeared briefly and now they're gone again. I assure you, Sweets, for the last month, all I've done is acknowledge their passing," she snapped. "If my lack of tears doesn't fit your psychological profile for how a woman displays sorrow, then I'm sorry. However, I am entitled to grieve in whatever manner I see fit."

He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, Dr. Brennan. I can't recommend that you continue your work with Agent Booth until I'm confident that you've come to terms with your loss."

"This is emotional blackmail!" Brennan exploded, jumping to her feet. "Just because you're not comfortable with an atypical display of sorrow, I'm expected to somehow force my parasympathetic branch into suddenly secreting an overabundance of acetylcholine through both the nicotinic and muscarinic receptors so that I thereby melt into a hapless puddle of lacrimation, satisfying your desire for societal conformity!"

"Crying is a natural reaction to the death of a loved one, Bones."

Knowing her deep connection with Booth, Sweets had deliberately used the nickname to trigger a reaction. He got one—just not the one he'd expected. Brennan lunged forward and landed a solid uppercut to the psychologist's left eye. The woman _definitely _didn't pull any punches, physical or otherwise. As Sweets reeled backwards in pain, she stormed out of the room.


	2. Messed up, all the way

**Mess with her, mess with me**

Visibly angry, Booth nevertheless managed to control his temper for Brennan's sake. He refused to take a seat, choosing instead to lean against the armrest of the couch, thumbs jammed aggressively into his belt buckle. Sweets automatically noticed that, in place of the usually flamboyant socks, tie and belt, were a sober trio of gray hues. Evidence that the FBI agent was commiserating with his partner's recent loss in subtle but meaningful ways that confirmed the depth of his feelings for Brennan.

"You just don't get it, do you." Booth's voice was laden with sarcasm as he counted off the psychologist's sins on his fingers. "One, you practically forced her to go to the funerals, when she would have preferred to spend the day working."

"She would have regretted not being there," Sweets protested. "You agreed with me at the time!"

"Two," Booth continued, as though he hadn't heard, "You repeatedly insisted she come to you for counseling."

"Her last living relatives were violently murdered in front of her eyes, Agent Booth. Counseling would have been the minimal requirement for helping anybody cope!"

"Three, you went over her head—and mine—and got the FBI to put the brakes on our work together until she consented to being evaluated." Booth shook his head pityingly. "I thought you were a smart guy, Sweets, but you oughta lose your squint squad badge for this." He raised his eyebrows. "_You messed with our partnership_! Even if she hadn't just lost two out of four meaningful relationships in her life, any amateur shrink could have told you that was no way to get Bones to open up."

He unfolded himself from the couch and took several steps toward the doctor, stopping to raise an amused eyebrow at Sweets' automatic move to cover his face against further punches. "Nice shiner, doc, but Bones really shoulda gone for your mouth. You could use a fat lip." He hovered tensely in the middle of the room. "Four. You threatened her job. Any day that would've been a stupid thing to do, but right now that was just the icing on a really, really bad wedding cake. And we all know how much Bones hates weddings."

"I did not threaten her job; I merely suggested she take some time out to process her feelings."

Booth snorted at the absurdity of the statement. "Bones has feelings, doc, but _you_ ain't ever gonna see her process them. And that would be colossal mistake number five." His voice took on a mocking, singsong quality. "You treated her like your average nutjob patient, without any consideration for the unique way her mind processes things."

Sweets raised his hands in surrender. "I'll admit, I may have been mistaken in my approach."

"No shit, Sherlock." Booth spread his hands wide in derisive amazement. "Number six: You didn't talk to me about any of this until after she blew up. And now," he shook his head. "You're expecting me to step in and fix things after you've _pissed off my partner and made her cry_." The pitying look was replaced with dangerous fury. "That's a whole bunch of mistakes right there, Sweets. You should consider yourself seriously lucky I haven't clocked you yet, or worse."

"She cried?" Sweets repeated in surprise.

"Because you emotionally assaulted her, you jackass, not because she's shedding tears over her family's death!" Booth snapped.

"I'm sorry you feel that's what happened, Agent Booth," Sweets sighed, "But I stand by my assessment. Dr. Brennan needs to come to terms with her past before she can have a meaningful present or future."

Booth scoffed. "Right. Like you did."

"That's right," Sweets replied calmly. "Facing what happened to me in the past enabled me to move forward as a whole human being. In fact, given your own difficult childhood, I might suggest that you follow the same advice I've given Dr. Brennan …" he trailed off at the lethal warning look on Booth's face.

The FBI Agent appeared to vibrate with nervous energy. He paced the room, much like a caged animal. Sweets wasn't easily intimidated, but the attachment Booth had to his partner was such that it was a genuine surprise the psychologist hadn't been torn limb from limb yet, or shot at close range with a high-caliber rifle.

"You realize that the only way you're going to get her to do this, Sweets, is if you let me go with her."

"And that's fine," the psychologist said, "As long as I can come along to evaluate her reaction."

"No fuckin' way," Booth retorted succinctly. He lifted a stress ball from a nearby table and squeezed it so hard that Sweets winced. "I'll fill whatever prescription it is you require in order for Bones to be certified for active duty with me again. But I'll turn in my badge before I take her back to face her childhood memories with you along for the ride." His voice dripped with disdain.

"All right," the doctor conceded, finally realizing just how badly he'd damaged the fragile trust he'd managed to establish with the partners over the last year. "Just make sure—"

Booth fixed him with a menacing glare. "The only thing I'm going to make sure of is that you never hurt my partner again."

He pitched the stress ball at Sweets lightning fast, striking the psychologist in the ribs. As Sweets doubled over, Booth grinned suddenly, though there was nothing friendly about the smile.

"Call her Bones again, this time with me around. C'mon, Sweets. I dare you."


	3. His Return

A/N: I did actually do some research online, but ended up making up 99.9% of the details about the neighborhood when I couldn't find too many specifics. I don't know at what age Booth's grandfather actually took him in, so that's also sheer conjecture. My apologies if I ventured too far off the already-established track, but I wanted to focus on the story rather than minutiae. Please R&R anyway. Next chapter shouldn't be too long in coming, assuming I sense that there's an interest in my continuing. It's all about the readers, after all!! :) :)

**Chapter 3**

**Returning (His)**

Stopped at a red light, Booth glanced over at his partner in the passenger's seat. Traffic had been heavy and she'd slept throughout most of the drive. In spite of the tension building within him with every passing mile, he had to smile at the sight of her lithe frame curled sideways into the doorframe, arms pillowing her head against the window. She looked almost peaceful. Loose, wavy tendrils of hair framed her face in a soft halo, lending her an air of innocence that had otherwise been stripped from both their lives long ago.

As though sensing his gaze, Brennan's eyes opened. She blinked for a moment, before unfolding herself into an upright position and stretching.

"How long was I asleep?"

"Couple hours," Booth replied, maneuvering the car through the light and into the left turn lane.

She frowned. "We should be almost there, then." Freshly woken, the gears in her mind nevertheless turned quickly and precisely, assessing the environment around them.

He waited, knowing it wouldn't take long for her to catch up.

"Advertisements for Sacco's Main Street Deli—signs for William Flynn Highway—" Something went click in that genius brain and he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the moment when she figured out their location.

"Booth, this isn't Virginia."

"Very good, Bones." Sometimes her statements of the obvious were comical, but he had no desire to laugh today.

"That's the Allegheny Valley Expressway. " She looked out the window again and back at him. "We're in Pittsburgh!"

"Give the lady a prize," he said dryly as he turned the car into a one-way residential street.

"What prize?" Brennan turned from the window and stared at him. "Booth, why are we in Pittsburgh?"

He put the car in park and shut the engine off. The silence between them was suddenly deafening.

"We're supposed to be in Virginia, Booth! What aren't you telling me?"

Her incredible mind could be amazingly slow in making connections outside the realm of work.

Booth pointed. "See that house over there, Bones?"

She glanced at the rundown, one story building across the street. A small enclosed front yard was overgrown with weeds to the point where it was hard to see the front steps leading up the short porch to the property. In the same yard, a decaying swing set drifted in a dry breeze, otherwise overshadowed by piles of garbage bags and construction debris. Vinyl siding that might once have been yellow, now most definitely gray, was cracked and peeling and directly adjacent to single-paned windows so opaque with layers of filth that it was impossible to see inside the house in spite of the lack of curtains or blinds.

Brennan opened her mouth, probably to demand what this had to do with their unexpected visit to Philly. Booth beat her to the punch.

"That's where I lived until I turned 13."


	4. Partnership

**Chapter 4**

**Partnership**

His tone was light, but even Brennan could detect the tension in her partner. His knuckles were almost white and locked on the steering column, his shoulders hunched and tight. The pallor in his face only served to highlight the rigid set of his jaw. He refused to look at her, glaring determinedly out the window at a fixed point instead. It was a defensive mechanism Brennan was more than familiar with, having perfected it herself.

"It didn't look so bad back then, you know." His choice of words bordered on apologetic. Embarrassed. "Not this bad, anyway."

Brennan struggled to find words to express what she was feeling. "I know how painful the memories of your past are, Booth. You didn't have to do this."

"I figure," he answered softly, "That if you have to face your ghosts in order to please Sweets, the least I can do is confront mine and keep you company."

For the first time, Brennan understood the idiom of having a lump in the throat. While she knew there was no physiological reason for the sensation, she suddenly found it very hard to swallow or speak.

Still without looking at her, Booth shoved open his door and climbed out. A blast of cold air leached into the SUV before he slammed the door shut. He turned his back and leaned against the car, hands jammed into his pockets as he stared at the house. Brennan watched him from her side of the vehicle, uncertain of whether he wanted company or space. In spite of his large, well-built frame, his broad shoulders suddenly seemed small when juxtaposed with the enormity of the past he was confronting for her sake. He looked very alone, and she knew loneliness better than most.

Coming to a decision, Brennan unlocked her own door and went to stand beside him. He didn't acknowledge her. She would have liked to say something appropriately compassionate or grateful, but such words were his strength, not hers. She settled for offering support by just being there for him. After all, Booth had been the one to teach her what such gestures truly meant.

The partners stood shoulder to shoulder in the cold spring wind, each lost in their own thoughts and memories. Finally, he looked over at her. "Take a walk with me down Memory Lane, Bones?"

She glanced at the address on a mailbox several houses down. "Isn't the street named Peralta?"

Booth offered her the shadow of a smile and Brennan was relieved that for once she seemed to have said the right thing. He held out his hand and she laced her fingers through his.


	5. Memory Lane

**A/N: I've hashed and rehashed Chapters 5 – 8 and I could keep rehashing endlessly, but then I would never get back to **_**Standards **_**and the rest of my Grave Digger series. So anyway, here's the next part of the story, rough though it may be. Please R&R. :)**

He was grateful for her presence at his side as they wandered through the decaying neighborhood. White picket fences, mostly all gray now, hung crazily on broken hinges, juxtaposed with graffitied stucco and condemned property warnings.

"We used to play kickball right there." Booth pointed to a section of the street littered with drug paraphernalia. "Me, Sam the Slam and Nick Bertucci."

Brennan raised her eyebrows quizzically. "Sam the Slam?"

"The guy was batting .335 at age twelve," he explained.

"I don't know what that means."

"He could've been the next Ted Williams." Booth chuckled at her baffled expression. "Yeah, Bones. That's good, especially for a kid. Really, really good. Pre-Gormogon Zack in the lab kind of good."

Her face brightened at his last remark. "Wow. Is he playing professional football now?"

"Baseball, Bones." He sighed. "And no. He had all sorts of teams trying to draft him straight out of high school, but Sam wanted to be a cop like his old man. He got shot during a drug bust in Lancaster. His widow kept him on life support for years before finally realizing he was never coming home."

"I'm sorry. What happened to Nick?"

"Last I heard, he was selling cars in Arizona. He wanted to be a Marine, but couldn't make the grade."

They continued walking past the shells of several stripped cars before stopping in front of a boarded-up one story. A lone chair on the decrepit front porch rocked eerily in the wind.

"Mrs. Vanessie used to live here. That old lady wanted me dead. If she'd had enough money to buy a gun, she probably would've shot me."

"Why?" Brennan asked in surprise.

"I was the primary suspect whenever a baseball went through her window. With good reason." Booth smiled at the memory. "Plus, I liked to ride my bike through her begonias."

"Ah. A Mrs. Dubose-type and you were Jem."

"I don't know what that means," he teased, vague memories of high school literature drifting through his head.

She opened her mouth to explain, saw the glint in his eye and stopped, smiling slightly. "Touché."

Both their smiles evaporated as they came to a halt in front of a significant blood splatter, marked by police tape. Brennan went into automatic squint mode, releasing Booth's hand as she crouched to assess the stain.

"That tape is fresh, but the blood stain is not. I have no evidence to support the theory, of course, but I would posit that, given the amount of blood that has seeped into the concrete, a body lay here for a significant amount of time before being found."

"Makes sense. Doesn't look like people drive down this street very often," Booth pointed out. "Cops would avoid the area as much as anybody else."

"There's no trail, so it would be possible to surmise that the body was carried and then dumped in this location—" Brennan stopped, seeing the expression on Booth's face. She stood and dusted her knees off. "I'm sorry. Pittsburgh law enforcement will have made a thorough investigation already, based on concrete evidence rather than unscientific conjecture."

"I wouldn't bet on it," muttered Booth. "This is probably another drug-related murder. Given the looks of the area—" He gestured at their dismal surroundings. "The local precinct is probably understaffed, overbudget, underfunded and overwhelmed. There used to be a church down the road, a little grocery store, a couple of elementary schools. It's all gone. God, Booth, what happened to this place?"

"The economic downturn has been especially hard on poor urban areas and working-class families. It's likely that the schools and church were closed due to budget cuts and, anthropologically speaking, once such gathering places vanish, the adjacent community moves away."

He shook his head. "Hard to believe this was actually a neighborhood once, you know? I mean, a real neighborhood, Bones. It wasn't upscale, but people mowed the lawns, planted flowers, kept their houses looking nice. Most guys tried to be good husbands and dads. They scraped out a living and brought their paycheck home to pay for food and rent. Maybe they kept back a few bucks for a brew with the guys at the local bar. On weekends, the wives met up for coffee and gossip, while we kids splashed around in leaking plastic pools, trying to drown each other."

"It's good that you have some positive memories associated with this part of your childhood."

"I said _most _guys tried, Bones. My dad wasn't exactly part of the neighborhood golf and gardening committee." His words were angrier than he'd intended. She'd only been trying to help.

Brennan stood by his side quietly for a long moment before speaking. "Booth, you've shared part of your past with me, and I'm grateful for your attempt at empathy with my own difficult childhood. We can leave now."

"Not yet." He turned and started back down the street.


	6. 1709 Peralta

**A/N: Forgive the English teacher in me. I just finished teaching 2 classes of ****TKAM****, so it's only natural that a couple of references to the book should pop up in my writing. I promise I'll limit my literary references to this chapter alone (plus the minor mention in the last chapter.)**

**I'm struggling with voice and character here, so any constructive feedback is much appreciated.**

1709 Peralta loomed in front of them all too quickly. Brennan could see Booth's entire body tense as they neared the broken gate.

"Booth, you really don't have to do this." Why he was subjecting himself to this on her behalf was beyond the scope of her scientific comprehension.

"Yeah, Bones." His voice was firm. "I do."

"All right." She knew there was no point in arguing. He was every bit as stubborn as she was. "Is this something you need to do alone?"

In response, he recaptured her hand in his, never taking his eyes off the house.

"I see the place in my dreams sometimes, you know. Usually my father's passed out in the yard, and neighbors are trying to help me carry him inside, but he wakes up and goes crazy."

Brennan's stomach twisted with empathy she didn't know how to express. "Did that actually happen?"

He chuckled humorlessly. "Oh, yeah. More times than I can count, Bones."

He led her up the broken walkway, pausing at the weed-overgrown, broken front steps. "The porch doesn't look too steady. It may not hold the weight of two people."

"I may not be very good at picking up subtle social cues, Booth, but I know when you're trying to give me a way out. If you want me with you, I am. If not, I'll wait in the car."

"Okay, Bones." He attempted a smile and failed miserably. "We'll do this together, but I'll go first."

"Sweets would have something to say about that statement," Brennan pointed out as he climbed onto the porch, bypassing the useless steps.

"It's holding my weight okay." He deliberately ignored her comment. "C'mon."

She took his extended hand and pulled herself up beside him. The porch sagged significantly and she wavered with the movement, careening straight into Booth's side. He placed a large hand on the small of Brennan's back, steadying her without comment. They scanned the neighborhood from this new vantage point.

"Isn't there a part in To Kill a Mockingbird where the kid looks out at the world from the neighborhood ghost's front porch?"

"The end of the book," Brennan said in surprise. Her partner wasn't given to literary analogies. "In an extended flashback, the author shows us what the world must have looked like from Boo Radley's eyes as he watched the children grow up and the neighborhood change without ever interacting with him."

"That was the only part of the book that made much sense to me," Booth said quietly. "I used to stand here and watch the neighbors, wishing I was anyone but Bob Ewell's kid." He smiled very slightly at her expression. "Yeah, Bones. I did my homework for English. Occasionally." The smile vanished as he indicated the front door. "Think it's locked?"

"That would seem likely."

Booth released her hand and moved forward swiftly. Two swift blows with his foot were all the warped frame needed to shudder inwards with a groan.

"You didn't even try the handle," Brennan protested.

"You said it would've been locked."

"I said it was likely!"


	7. Inside

**A/N: Yes, it seems improbable that, twenty odd years later, a house would remain exactly as the previous owner left it. However, I'm drawing from personal experience here and such places definitely do exist. Years ago I worked as an intern for a realtor, and we canvassed a number of properties that had simply been left to rot for one reason or another. It was eerie walking through hallways with faded pictures on them, and even seeing breakfast dishes on the table with decades-old food encrusted upon them. Hence, my version of Booth's childhood home frozen in time. Please R&R! :)**

The hallway was in remarkably good condition, given the exterior of the house. Dimly lit by sunlight filtering through the broken doorway, picture frames jumped out to meet him from the yellowed walls of the house where they still hung, exactly like in his memories. Picture frames he had put up, to try and convince his friends he had a normal family.

Brennan scrutinized the images closely, missing nothing even in the poor light. "Booth, the heads in these photographs don't appear to match the bodies."

It had taken hours to create the dusty, falsified Kodak moments, to make it look like his dad was the one barbecuing, gardening, playing with his sons.

"I cut and pasted our faces onto pictures from my best friend's family album." Even years later, the memory was still humiliating. "When you're a kid you want to fit in, Bones. All my friends had family portraits in their houses."

He was grateful when she didn't press the subject.

They moved into the living room to the right of the hallway, dominated by a large gray Barcalounger in front of an ancient wide-screen TV. Underfoot, the industrial-type carpet was black with mold, but he could still make out the beer stains. A stench of alcohol lingered in the air, or at least in his mind, forcing Booth to breathe shallowly. Memories bubbled up inside him, causing a sensation akin to heartburn.

"This was Dad's den. Jared and I weren't allowed anywhere near it. We watched TV at our friends' places." He indicated the white rocking chair covered in plastic in the corner of the room. "See that?"

Brennan nodded.

"That was Mom's chair. After she died, Dad covered it up and warned us never to sit in it again."

His partner frowned. "You've never spoken about your mother before. How old were you when she died?"

"Almost seven."

"Is it okay if I ask what happened?"

Booth had expected memories. What he hadn't expected was how heavy they would be. Kept at bay for decades, they landed on him with the physical impact of a tackle by a 400 pound quarterback. He stepped away from Brennan and wandered further into the room. The only window in the room was boarded-up and little light filtered in from the hallway, adding a macabre tinge to his already dark memories of the place.

"Booth." Her voice was soft with concern. "I'm sorry if I was unintentionally insensitive."

He sighed, aware of how hard she was trying. "You're fine, Bones."

"Would you like me to wait outside?"

"No." Booth's eyes snapped open in alarm, focusing in on his partner standing in the shadows of the doorway. In the dusty, washed-out gloom, her vivid eyes and windblown, flame-colored hair were an anchor from the darkness threatening to consume him. "Don't leave, Bones."

"I don't know what to do," she admitted. "You're confronting your memories of the past for my sake, but I lack an intuitive awareness of how to respond when people are vulnerable emotionally."

"I wish you'd quit saying that. You don't lack anything," Booth muttered gruffly. "What I need right now is for you to listen. Just listen. Okay, Bones?"

"I can do that."


	8. Mother

**A/N: I searched high and low, but could find no information on Booth's mother, so the following is pure conjecture. It's a clichéd picture, I'll admit, and I sincerely apologize for the lower quality of writing. But it fits with my notion of why Booth needs to protect people so much. (I'm not sure how much older Booth is than Jared, so I estimated, just as I estimated Booth's childhood to be in the mid-70s.) I'm concerned enough about the clichéd writing that I'm actually afraid to ask for reviews on this one! If you do review, feel free to be constructive. I take feedback very well. Just be kind while you're at it. :0) **

Brennan watched his large frame sink against the wall.

"I was all into Stretch Armstrong at the time, and my mom was making mini-Stretch and Fetch cupcakes for my birthday."

She had no idea who or what Stretch Armstrong was and filed the question away for a later conversation.

"I was supposed to be watching Jared, but there was a Batman marathon on TV and that was more interesting than babysitting my kid brother."

"Russ and I used to argue over television," she offered in an attempt to commiserate. "I wanted to watch scientific documentaries, whereas he was more inclined toward animated renditions of mono-dimensional characters with frequently puerile intentions …" she trailed off at the amused look on Booth's face.

"Cartoons, Bones. They're called cartoons. I thought you said you liked the Smurfs."

"They were interesting from an anthropological standpoint," she huffed. "And I apologize for interrupting when you specifically asked me to listen."

He closed his eyes and continued as though she had never spoken. "Next thing you know, I hear Mom yelling for us to come help set the table for lunch, Dad's coming home early. I start looking for Jared so I won't get in trouble, but he's nowhere in the house, so I go outside."

Booth's voice took on an unfamiliar, hoarse quality.

"I wander around the yard for a few minutes before I finally see my three-year old brother, about to cross the street on his own. Usually the streets are pretty safe, but right now there's this unfamiliar car coming towards him at top speed."

He paused for a long moment, fists tightly clenched at the memory.

"I think I scream—I don't remember—and start running towards him. Suddenly I'm in the street, Jared's crying underneath me, and Mom's on top of both of us, bleeding like crazy."

He turned and stared at her, unfocused, as though he was seeing something beside her silhouette. "I woke up in the hospital three days later, wrapped in bandages. Jared was fine, with a neighbor. A nurse said Mom was dead. And Dad was stone drunk, passed out beside me."

Pain glittered deep in his eyes and Hank's words came flooding back to Brennan.

_He's big and strong. But he's gonna need someone. Everyone needs someone. Don't be scared._


End file.
